Shadow's Peak
by OChaven
Summary: The 72nd Hunger Games. Faythe was supposed to be safe and sound in District 9, but now here she was: running around trying to stay alive with a boy who was strangely good with a bow.


**Shadow's Peak**

The 72nd Hunger Games. Faythe was supposed to be safe and sound in District 9, but now here she was: running around trying to stay alive with a boy who was strangely good with a bow.

* * *

The small pitter-patter of rain caused the sleeping girl to stir, kicking off the rags she called covers. The air was chilling, slowly creeping in through the poorly built structure acting as her home. The smell of mold irrevocably stained in the eggshell-colored walls was mixed with the smell of the raindrops falling outside. With a deep sigh, the girl slowly pushed herself up from the rickety bed, the mattress' springs creaking as she did.

Wasn't that just her luck? She was already having trouble sleeping, and the rain decided to aid in her insomnia.

The girl brought a hand up to her neck, rubbing it tiredly as she looked toward the dismal outside. The rain was beginning to pick up, falling at a faster pace now. She liked to believe that the heavens were weeping — if there even was a heaven at all. Instinctively, she fidgeted with the bronze necklace melded into the shape of two leaves hanging loosely around her neck, hoping that the jewelry would bring her some kind of comfort in this gloomy weather. It was the only thing that tied the girl to her mother who had died when she was only seven.

She still remembered the day as if it had only happened yesterday...

The Peacekeepers claimed it to be an accident, but she knew that was a lie. Since when would a gendarmerie controlled by the Capitol kill innocent workers on _accident_? She let out an even breath slowly, deciding against her better judgment to put the memories away for now. Today was already solemn enough without her adding any more painful memories to the mix.

She exhaled again, softly, as she slowly opened up her door, careful not to wake up her father and brother in the small room next to hers. Tip toeing down the long corridor of the hallway, she made her way to the kitchen. The place wasn't anything special, a tiny blue room with a small wood burning stove and a refrigerator that barely ever got power. Not to mention the rickety, wooden table that was about to collapse due to the weight of the miscellaneous items scattered on top of it.

District 9 wasn't the richest District; in fact it was far from it. Specializing in grain didn't really do much except get people some bread and calloused hands. She knew better then to complain. Her father always told her 'be proud of your district' and 'embrace its specialization.' But why would someone be proud of a District that had lost every Hunger Games up to date except for a _staggering_ five times?

Five times out of the past seventy-one hardly seemed like a threatening number, especially if someone was looking to get sponsors after they were reaped.

The girl didn't know why she was worrying about that now. Her name would only be in there twenty-one times: four due to her age, which was fifteen, and an extra seventeen times because of her exchange of reaping entries for tesserae — added cumulatively over the three long, grueling years she'd been eligible to compete in the games of course.

District 9 had the eleventh largest population with a total of 15,346 people up to date. With about 3/5 of that number included in the twelve to eighteen age range, there was no doubt in her mind that she was most likely going to be safe for another year, required to work out in the mills or in the fields until the next July came around.

But, then she would be forced to worry all over again.

The District 9 girl took a quick glance at the time, looking over to the clock above the kitchen sink. It read eight o' two in the morning. The reaping wasn't for another six hours.

Holding onto her necklace for another moment, the girl sighed deeply, reluctantly opening up the front door to her house before stepping outside. Usually at this hour, the dirt pavement was littered with grimy men and women, each working in contempt. District 9 worked from sun up to sun down, and if someone was caught out past ten or out before five, they would be punished. In other words, the Capitol would send Peacekeepers to come and execute them.

It was hardly 'peaceful'.

Or humane.

But today, the roads were devoid of both Peacekeepers and workers. Everyone was most likely sleeping in — for the one and only time they would have the chance to this year.

The rain was continuing its slow downpour, each frigid drop hurling down with brute force toward the dirt pavement below. She guessed that she liked the rain, if not a lot, then only a little bit. After all, Mother Nature was the same to the Districts as it was to the Capitol.

Mother Nature didn't hold back her gusts of winds and her cold, stormy nights. She didn't hold back the harsh elements to the ungrateful Capitol bigots.

With a small drop falling down onto her nose from her leaking awning, that was enough to make her smile.

The girl walked back inside to grab a coat, remaining as quiet as she had been when she first woke up. She pulled the black hood over her head as she turned away from her house, sauntering down the dirt path that headed west.

She had _always_ despised the games.

Not because they was unfair— which, yes they _were_ — but because her only friend had been reaped at the low age of twelve. That was three years ago. And seeing her best friend die on screen to a Career in a hot, burning desert didn't make matters better. It toughened up the girl, however, adding to the tough façade that she had put up since her mother's death.

The lovely woman, with hair dark as coal and eyes the color of amber, always took her to a secret place when she was little, unbeknownst to the rest of their family and the Peacekeepers. And ever since then, the girl would go there whenever she could. Today being the reaping day, it seemed like a good reason to head down there. It was a small little cove that was hidden within what used to be known as the Great Lakes. Of course, it was passed the District lines, which meant that it was illegal to visit.

Risking getting caught, the girl's mother would take them in the dead of night when the moon was full. Only then was the cove _truly_ magical. At the top of the cave was a perfectly carved circle, large enough to let the full moon shine straight through the opening.

The girl's mother would sing her a song, a lullaby of sorts. It drowned out the oppression going on around them and made everything seem okay. But nothing was ever going to be okay. The Capitol was always going to control the Districts because no one would do a damn thing to stop it.

"— Faythe, what are you doing out here so early?" A voice interrupted, making the girl turn her head to the left and spray a few loose rain droplets from her saturated hood. It was her neighbor, Mrs. Divinity.

Mrs. Divinity was an older woman, around her mid-sixties. Her snow-white hair could rival President Snow himself, but hers was completely natural. The older woman's upper lip was also indented with wrinkles, presumably due to her old smoking habits. Other than the occasional yelling of someone being on her lawn, she was a pretty nice lady.

Faythe smiled as she eyed the woman, "Oh, good morning Mrs. Divinity. I was just going out for some fresh air. I can see you were doing the same?"

"It's the only thing I can do," she sighed, shaking her head. Though, both women looked up at the cloudy, dismal sky. Yeah, fresh air. "With work cancelled today due to the reaping.. I figured I would go out and enjoy the day while it lasted."

"Sounds smart," Faythe nodded her head. "I'm surprised not many people are out taking advantage of it."

"That's what fear does to you," Mrs. Divinity sighed, taking a sip of her low-quality coffee. Faythe thought that the drink tasted like grimy dirt. "Even though the Peacekeepers aren't out, the townspeople still have fear of them lurking around."

"That's what this damned dictatorship does," Faythe grimaced, and she instinctively felt her fist tighten up.

"Say.. you're in the reaping today, right?" Mrs. Divinity questioned. "How many times is your name in there this time?"

Faythe nodded solemnly, bitterly, "Twenty-one."

Mrs. Divinity wove a hand, noticing the girl's sad expression, "Don't worry about it. That's not that much in the grand scheme of things."

"One reaping ticket is enough to get your name called," the girl bit back, the words coming out harsher than expected.

"Well then .. may the odds be ever in your favor," the old woman chuckled slightly, her voice mimicking the sick, posh, Capitol accent.

Faythe smiled slightly at the optimism before making her way back down the path, hands shaking a little in anxiety. She saw her face in the reflection in one of the many pools of water beneath her, and she grit her teeth at the girl staring back at her.

After that, she managed to lift up her head, if only just a little bit.

The girl returned home a little after noon. By then, the rain had stopped completely, and the puffy white clouds made their way into the sky. Faythe opened up the door to her small house to see her brother bounding around their small kitchen. Her father, not very authoritative, attempted to calm the boy down, but that only resulted in the small, eleven year-old boy growing even crazier. And in result he knocked over a few pans.

Tobin, the girl's brother, was rather plain looking. He mostly took after their father, with his dull brown hair and glossy, green eyes. Faythe took more after her mother, black hair falling just above her shoulders with a slight curl to the ends, and flushed skin. The only thing she didn't receive from her parents was her ice-blue eyes; they were inherited from her grandmother.

The one thing the girl didn't like about herself was the millions of freckles dusting her cheeks. It looked to Faythe as if she had gotten sprayed with a hose of mud and forgot to wash off her face. Other than that, Faythe considered herself a Plain Jane.

A Plain Jane with a mud face.

She walked to the one bathroom they had, avoiding her brother and father altogether. They had too much energy — especially on _this_ day. She sighed as she stared at the full tub of murky bath water, watching in disgust as the bottom of the tub was lined in a thin film of dirt.

District 9 was the most impoverished District when it came to water; the Capitol cut off their supply to natural, clean water ten years back. Ever since then, it was extremely hard for the District to collect their own supply, and they now had to rely on the Capitol for water rations. Even then, the rations were slim, and most households had to survive on fifty gallons of water a week. So most of the time, families kept their bath water full for at least two weeks. Although slightly unsanitary, it was better to have clean water to drink than clean water to bathe in.

So stepping into the small tub of cloudy water, Faythe washed her body and hair, using a scented soap that one of their next-door neighbors had made by hand. It smelt of strawberries and lilac, a combination Faythe wouldn't have necessarily thought of on her own, but a beautiful scent nonetheless.

Faythe stepped out of the dirty water, drying off her body with a nearby rag before stepping into her reaping clothes; a pale yellow blouse and white skirt.

She cocked her head as she took a look into their bathroom mirror — it too had a thin veil of grime covering it. Her black hair was abnormally curly — well, more _wild_ and _unkempt_ than curly — and the girl took a nearby comb to brush it out. Seemingly happy with the results, Faythe stepped out of the room with about thirty minutes left to spare.

"You look beautiful," the girl's father smiled once she stepped into the kitchen, pulling her into a small embrace.

"Thanks, Dad," Faythe spoke, "but being beautiful won't save me from being reaped."

"Don't be such a worrywart," Tobin pouted, poking the 15 year-old in the nose. "You'll be back tonight eating bread with us!"

' _Let's hope so.._ ' Faythe thought to herself, eyes glimmering with unshed tears. Her brother was so innocent, and the next year, his name would begin to be entered into the draw. The games were so cruel and twisted.

"Let's get this over with," the girl sighed, pushing through her family as she headed for the door, and they slowly followed behind.

The reaping was held in the Goldenbar, a big time square type of place. It was about a ten minute walk from Faythe's house, way closer than for those on the whole other side of District 9. The Goldenbar was where the Hunger Games showing was held, so many decided to stay down there in hotels if traveling was of an inconvenience. Well, they were _called_ hotels, but they were really small shacks usually equipped with one bed and no central heating.

By the time Faythe arrived, she was immediately separated from her brother and father. Family members were required to line up around the perimeter of the square, standing tightly together as they prayed for their family's safety. The multiple camera crews were situated around the Goldenbar, recording around the square for it to be projected onto screens as it is televised live to the Capitol.

All those who were eligible to compete were required to sign in. They received a finger prick before being sent over into roped off sections; the oldest on the front and the youngest in the back. Faythe took her spot over where the fifteen-year-olds were roped off, trying to avoid the stony gazes of the teens around her.

The Goldenbar soon was overcrowded, as the population of over 15,000 was deemed too much for the small square to handle. Usually those who arrived later were sent outside of the town square and watched from screens projected onto blimps — courtesy of the Capitol.

Faythe sighed deeply as her attention was diverted to the front of the temporary set-up stage. Two glass bowls were perched up on metal stands, one side for the boys, and one side for the girls. There were four seats perched on the stage as well, one for the Mayor of the town, who was a huge blockhead and totally _didn't_ deserve the extra water each week from the Capitol, two for the only victors still alive, and the last one for the Capitol escort, Ophilia Kite.

The escort was like any other Capitol woman: She had a white face, purple lips, enormous eyelashes, and poofy bright, lime-green hair. She looked like she had glitter exploded on her as well because as she moved up to the center stage, Faythe could swear she was blinded by the sparkling light.

The town's bell rang out, signifying the time of two o'clock.

Ophilia tapped lightly on the microphone, making it screech in reply as she cleared her throat. "Happy Hunger Games!" She called out, the words sounding more like a routine than a welcoming. "And may the odds be ever in your favor."

Quickly, she went over the history of Panem, the same thing they said every year. Usually the Mayor of the district was supposed to do this, but District 9's Mayor was unable to read. Faythe had a joke among her friends at school that the Mayor's true identity was rug — he couldn't read or write, and the Capitol walked all over him.

Then came the rules of the Hunger games: How twenty-four tributes are chosen, one boy and one girl from each district, and they compete in an arena for their life. The last one standing, the best of them all, wins. The way the escort made it sound like all fun and games disgusted Faythe, and the black-haired girl felt herself clench her fists in anger until her knuckles turned white.

It was supposed to scare the Districts, remind them that they are at the Capitol's complete and utter mercy. It was supposed to remind them not to rebel as they once had before.

The Dark Days — the uprising of the districts against the Capitol ... if they were to try it again, they would _die_.

"Without further ado, let us start with the boys," the green-haired lady smiled, walking over to the glass jars situated on the right side of the stage. Ophilia slowly put her hand into the glass ball, twirling around her fingers as she searched for the perfect slip. Everyone assumed she had found it, seeing as how her hand paused before retracting out. Everyone roped off on the male side, all 6,543 of them, drew in a collective breath all at once.

"Our first tribute for the 72nd Hunger Games.." Ophilia trailed off, flipping the card open. "—Is Rye Hazeldine!"

Faythe turned her head to the left, looking over to the male section where the eighteen-year-olds were roped off. A tanned man with chocolate hair and big blue eyes stepped out, pushing through the wave of boys roughly as he walked towards the stage. He must've been from another part of District 9 because Faythe didn't recognize him at all.

"C'mon, let's hurry up now," Ophilia rushed, smiling her disgusting Capitol smile with inhumanly perfect teeth.

Rye stomped up to the front of the stage, knuckles clenched white in anger. He couldn't blame anyone but himself for being picked, seeing as how he had forty-nine slips packed into the big, glass container. His family probably wasn't even grateful..

With a sigh, he gazed out into the open square, taking note of the relieved faces of the male section.

"And last but not least," Ophilia smiled, walking over to the other glass ball, "the female tribute."

The Capitol woman once again stuck her hand into the container, twisting and turning as she pushed in further. One slip caressed her finger tips, and Ophilia grinned slightly. That one was the one. She softly pulled it out, smiling as she undid the bindings. Clearing her throat slightly, she leaned into the microphone.

"Faythe Lovelock."

And then the world seemed to stop.

Faythe's heart dropped, and she replayed the words over and over again in her head. There was no way! Out of everyone here, out of the thousands and thousands of names, how was _she_ the one picked?

Faythe's chest tightened up and her breathing hitched. She felt her head spin around in a whirl of nausea.

"Faythe Lovelock?" Ophilia's voice called out again. "Don't be shy, come out to be recognized."

Blinking her icy blue eyes slowly, she lightly stepped through the crowd of 15 year-old girls whose looks of relief angered her to no end. Their looks soon turned solemn, however, as they stared into Faythe's orbs, sad that she was going to her inevitable death.

The girl glided down the stone path bordered by Peacekeepers, taking deep breaths to calm down her nerves. It was going to be okay.

 _'A good show,'_ she told herself. ' _That's all the Capitol wants. The sadistic bastards..'_

Reluctantly walking up the set of stairs, Faythe silently made her way up on the stage, perching herself next to Rye. The boy quirked a brow as she passed him, steadily and unwavering. But her gaze was focused not on the stage, or Rye, or Ophilia, or the thousands upon thousands of people stretching out below and beside her — no, she was looking into the sky. The sky that had been weeping only a few hours ago. Maybe it had been her mother, crying from the heavens because she knew what was going to happen to her sweet daughter.

Whatever the reason, it had been an omen for her death.

"Any volunteers?" The Capitol woman inquired, her question met with silence. "Alright. Tributes shake hands."

Faythe pushed her fingers out, and Rye grasped the delicate hand into his own. The black-haired girl gave the man a hard squeeze, making the District 9 boy raise a brow.

' _What a grip..'_ he thought as they separated.

Ophilia closed the tribute picking ceremony by reading the long, boring Treaty of Treason, yet another required tradition done every year.

Peacekeepers filed onto the small stage, surrounding the two tributes with armed guns. They were to escort the male and female to District 9's Capitol Building where they were to say goodbye to their families, maybe for the last time. The men in white armor shoved the two off the stage, following way too closely for Faythe's liking.

What was she going to do? Run away? She'd either be killed, become an Avox, or just be brought back. The risk wasn't worth the reward.

They arrived at the tall building located just left of Goldenbar: Rye was escorted to the right while Faythe was shoved to the left. She barely had enough time to process her surroundings before being thrust inside a room.

The interior was a warm gold, somehow enhancing the mahogany furnishings. Paintings littered the wall, and gems and jewels dusted the tables. It was the most expensive looking room Faythe had ever seen in her life.

She wished she could cry — she wished she could just leave this place and cry until no more tears came out. But she couldn't cry; there would be more cameras at the train station, waiting for her departure. Waiting to broadcast her live to the millions of Capitol citizens.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the clicking of a door, and she looked up at two familiar faces piling in.

Nothing was said for a while. Her father, most likely in shock, could only stare at his daughter in pain and anguish. Not another one. He couldn't lose another one.

"Dad... Tobin," Faythe smiled sadly, finally breaking the stunned silence, enveloping them in a hug.

"Don't worry honey— we'll get through it," her dad reassured her, but he knew he was only trying to comfort himself. His voice was too rough and shaky to be true. He was already beginning to grieve over her death while she was still alive. "We always do."

"I'm going to die," Faythe whispered lightly. Her lip trembled, and she could feel tears begin to pool hotly in her eyes.

No crying, she remembered.

"If you think that way then you definitely will," Tobin smiled, punching his sister lightly in the shoulder. He tried to remain optimistic, but even _his_ voice was wavering slightly. "Be brave, sis."

"Do it for your mother," Faythe's dad said lowly, making the girl's blue orbs open in sadness. She brought a hand up to her necklace, twirling the two leaves in her fingers.

"Okay," Faythe nodded her head.

She then turned to her brother.

She told him to not take the tesserae — that they could make it through without it. They would have more water after she left: more water to drink and make soups with. Mrs. Divinity would also help to take care of them — Faythe knew she would. The older woman was living by herself, and had more than enough food to share. Faythe knew because Mrs. Divinity had given them food before.

"One minute left!" The peacekeepers outside shouted, pounding on the door.

"One minute is enough time," the girl's father sighed. "The games are going to be tough, I can't deny that, but use what you know to your advantage."

"Like your aim!" Tobin said energetically. "I always saw you practice outback with the knives. You could probably practice with other weapons at the Capitol."

"Tobin, that was just for fun when I wasn't working," Faythe denied. It had been child's play — something she would do when she was bored. "My aim wasn't even that good."

"You can win," Tobin said, grabbing hold of his sister's hand. "You're strong and fast, and one of the bravest people I know. And you're _my_ sister, so you're cool, and people will love you and sponsor you!"

Faythe smiled, even though she knew that she couldn't win. Didn't Tobin know that too? Why did he have so much faith in her? There were the Careers that had trained their whole life for the Hunger Games. Careers that easily snapped off her friend, Bexely's, neck. Careers that wouldn't care if she was fifteen, eighteen, or twelve. Careers that would _kill_ without hesitation.

"Times up!" the Peacekeepers announced barging in.

The girl's father lightly pecked her on the cheek before being dragged away by the Peacekeepers, and Tobin gave his sister a quick hug before being shoved out after his father.

Faythe sighed as she sat down on the velvet couch in the corner of the room, pushing her head into her hands. How did she get herself into this mess? And how were things ever going to be the same?

The Peacekeepers came in a few minutes later, shoving the black-haired girl out of the room. It was there where she met up with Rye whose face seemed passive. Faythe couldn't tell what was going through the tanned boy's head, but his clenched jaw could tell her something: He wasn't happy.

The two, recently-selected tributes were escorted out by Ophilia, who led them to a car.

 _A car._

Faythe looked at the foreign object. She'd only ever heard of them, and now she got to ride in one. The seats were leather, and there was _air conditioning_ in the vehicle — cold air was a _luxury_ in District 9. They road for a short while, to the heavily populated train station, and once the tributes stepped out from the short ride, they were immediately swarmed with reporters.

The cameras flashed and clicked— reporters screamed questions into their ears. Faythe remained impassive, mostly because she wasn't used to this much attention. Most people left her alone back in her hometown, and she never talked to boys. Things like that didn't matter when she worked to keep food on a plate.

Faythe took a moment to look over at Rye whose godly smile and charming dimples were being broadcasted to the millions of citizens watching from the Capitol. His brown, flippy hair was messily falling down his face, and his facial hair stubbled itself around his mouth.

Yeah, he definitely knew what he was doing.

They had to stand outside of the high-class train for a few moments, mostly so that the reporters could get several images of the District 9 tributes, then they were allowed inside.

The train wasted no time in beginning its trip to the Capitol, and the speed of the vehicle was astounding. Faythe had never been on a train before, a little bit obvious since she had never been in a car before either. Traveling within the District was strictly stuck on foot. Not even wagons were used.

But Faythe wasn't on a normal train — not one of those coal-burning ones she learned about in school. This was an electro-magnetic train that traveled approximately two-hundred and fifty miles an hour — or so Ophilia said. They would probably be at the Capitol by the next morning.

Faythe followed slowly inside, looking at the train she was now situated on. It was bright with enlightening colors, something ironic for the situation at hand.

The tribute train was way more extravagant than the Capitol building, and the long vehicle had several rooms to accompany more than just the few people on the train. There were special chambers for the chosen tributes, each complete with its own bedroom, dressing area, and bathroom.

Faythe's chamber was the last one on the right, and the girl slowly stumbled down the hallway to her quarters after Ophilia told her to be ready in an hours' time for dinner.

The room was unable to be described by words.

The light blue bedroom glowed in an enchanting haze, the chandelier shining white light across the room. The king sized bed was situated underneath a bus length window, the mattress squishy and soft. A huge television dropped down from the ceiling as Faythe experimentally pressed a button, and she opened her mouth in surprise.

Never in a million years would she be able to afford anything like this! Most people she knew were starving, their leaking roofs barely keeping them alive. But the people from the Capitol — they had everything given to them so easily.

The black-haired girl stepped into the bathroom, sighing deeply. It just wasn't fair.

After a quick shower in probably one of the most high-tech things Faythe had ever seen, an hour had already passed. So Faythe quickly dressed in a light blue shirt and khaki shorts before making her way out into the train's dining room.

It was a fairly large room, with a long rosewood table that could easily fit twelve people. It was furnished by highly breakable china, and Faythe didn't know how such fragile dishes could withstand holding the weight of food on them. Rye was already sitting in his seat, along with a woman.

The woman was around her mid-fifties, her hair chocolate brown and styled in a pixie cut. Her eyes looked intellectual, but guarded. She acknowledged Faythe over, who had yet to sit down in a seat.

"Welcome," the brown-haired woman greeted sweetly. "I think you find this place fascinating, am I right?"

"Well, you're not wrong," Faythe muttered, taking a seat opposite the woman.

No one else talked after that. Well, except for Ophilia — but she didn't really count. The only things she said were reminders to keep their stomachs empty, because dessert would surely be on the way. But Faythe could barely find the will to _not_ eat everything on the table. There were several cuts of meat served with fresh vegetables, a salad greener than Ophilia's hair, buttery rolls, mashed potatoes, all different kinds of fruit, and many other foods that Faythe didn't even know the name of.

Ophilia said that one of those things was called clam chowder. Faythe didn't know what a clam was, nor did she know what a chowder was, but she ate the creamy soup anyways.

"I'm guessing you're here to help us," Rye questioned in the silence as he looked at their mentor, his question sounding more like a statement.

"Indeed.. but that depends on how much you listen to my advice," the mentor spoke evenly. "After all, my help can only go so far."

"Alright we don't need some inspirational speech," Rye rolled his eyes. "What can we do that will save our asses in that arena?"

Their mentor smiled devilishly, "Wouldn't you like to know who I am first?"

"Pemeth Aunorm, winner of the 33rd Hunger Games at the age of 17," Faythe stated, crossing her arms as if she was unimpressed. "Killed the last opponent, a boy from District 3, by trapping him underneath of a lake."

"Seems like you know your stuff, girlie," she grinned, holding out her hand across the table — a manner that made Ophilia grimace. "You can call me Pemeth; nice to meet you."

"I would say I was obliged, but then I'd be lying," Rye scowled, his eyes eying the woman's hand, but he made no move to offer out his own.

"I think you would want to reconsider your attitude," Pemeth said darkly, retracting her hand. "After all, I am your mentor. I can help and teach you as little as I want."

"I'm Faythe.. Faythe Lovelock," the girl nodded her head. "Since I know who you are it's only fair for me to give you my name."

The brunette boy lowered his gaze, "Rye Hazeldine."

"Ophilia Kite!" The escort said merrily, though she didn't know that no one was paying her any mind.

"See, isn't that better?" Pemeth questioned. "Now that we're formally acquainted, I feel obligated to tell you some inside information."

Faythe looked at her mentor from underneath of her lashes, "So.. um.. how _do_ we survive?"

"Ah, ah! We shall go over this tomorrow!" Ophilia interrupted. She snapped her fingers, which seemed to summon the Avoxes from somewhere deep within the train. "We have to watch the recap of the reapings!"

The two tributes and their mentor were then promptly removed from the dining room compartment to a different one. It was a living room-esque part of the train, complete with a holographic television and a plush, red-feathered couch. There was even a dart board, though Faythe didn't know who would actually use it.

Faythe took her seat far away from everyone else. She hoped to clear her mind and focus on these people that just might kill her.

District 1 was up first, a crazy dressed male, presumably the escort, stepped forward. He called out the girls first, only to have someone volunteer, a blonde girl with huge doe eyes. The same thing happened for the boys. Someone from the District was called, and a broad-shouldered hunk volunteered in his place. Faythe and Rye learned that these were the Careers. District 2's reaping went the same, as did District 4. The rest of the Districts went as they normally did, either a young girl or boy chosen to be sent to their inevitable deaths.

Then came District 9. They saw Ophilia trot up to the stage, tap the microphone, and then speak. She then proceeded to walk over to the boy's glass ball, pulling out Rye's slip. Then Faythe was called out, and she took note of her appearance. The black-haired girl's stony-gaze, from being struck with perpetual fear, looked as if she was just annoyed; which she kind of was. It made her stare look menacing, deadly almost. It was unintentional, but it apparently worked out in her favor.

District 12 was the next one to stick out to the girl. Another ridiculous looking escort walked out, introducing the District. Some drunken guy walked onto the stage, mumbling incoherent words as he took a swig of alcohol. He was Haymitch Abernathy. Winner of the 50th Hunger Games at the age of 16. Faythe knew, only because she read books about the Hunger Games when she was little.

The first person to be called was a girl, quite short with curly blonde hair. She timidly walked up to the front of the stage, hoping for someone to volunteer. Of course no one did. The escort then proceeded to call out the next name, only to have a man from the 16 year-old section step out. He had dark hair, olive skin, and stormy, grey eyes. He was rather attractive Faythe believed, watching his muscular body roughly walk up the stage.

After the reapings were over, Ophilia clicked the T.V. off and sent the tributes to their room. They were told that they would be arriving at the Capitol by late morning, so they were to be up by ten and look presentable by eleven. After all, this really was their first impression to the Capitol.

Ophilia left then, leaving the two tributes with their new mentor, and possibly, their only hope for survival.

She sat elegantly, crossing her legs to the floor as her hands were folded neatly in her lap. Her posture remained unaffected by the red-feathered couch, and she smiled, expectantly — like she was waiting for the first person to jump at her with questions.

"So, you're supposed to give us advice," Rye spoke. Well, he was certainly eager.

"You want advice?" Pemeth said with her smile. "Don't die."

Faythe couldn't help but let a scowl fall over her features. "No, seriously. How do we stay alive out there?"

"That's a pretty vague question..." Pemeth trailed off, tapping her chin lightly. "Let's see.. you need to get water before anything else, people die faster due to natural causes than to a knife. Don't go for the weapons they have strewn out, it's there to aid the Bloodbath. Hmm.. stay hidden, and don't trust anyone."

"Anyone?" Rye questioned, turning his head to look at Faythe.

Pemeth nodded, "Everyone dies except for one person; making attachments will lead to your unfortunate demise. Only trust yourself.. after all, your killer _could_ be sitting right next to you."

Faythe glanced warily at Rye whose gaze was stony and hard. She subtly scooted away from the boy, who cracked his neck with a grin.

"So.. um, alliances are out of the question?" Faythe asked.

Pemeth sighed, "Districts 1, 2, and 4 are the ones who will team up. Most of the other Districts are useless in comparison to them. So, yes; Alliances are not logical, unless you somehow manage to get in with the Careers."

"So it wouldn't be a good idea for me to team up with Rye?" Faythe said, looking at the boy. "I mean, we're from the same district. It could be helpful."

" _Me_? Have an alliance with _you_?" He snorted, "You're a _girl_."

Faythe was taken aback. "It's a smart idea. We've grown up in basically the same place. We could help each other out."

Rye shook his head, "I'm going to have to pass. Especially since a little girl like you wouldn't be able to do _anything_ to help me in the first place."

Faythe clenched her jaw. Somehow, she couldn't find herself getting along with Rye. She was thinking of ways to keep them both alive, whereas he was only thinking about himself. She leaned in dangerously close to the boy. The only way she had a chance of winning was with some help. This guy should have been begging to have an alliance with her — even if Pemeth said it wasn't worth it.

"Just because I'm a girl, that doesn't mean I'm _weak_ ," Faythe spoke harshly, her eyes gleaming threateningly. "We're trying to survive out there as long as we can, and we're already going to have multiple Districts after our heads. Now, if you want me as an enemy, you're one step closer to being dead. So I suggest that you think about an alliance, or else I will show you _no_ mercy."

"Settle down," Pemeth sighed. "If you really want to have an alliance with Rye then you shouldn't be yelling at him.. that will make him dislike you.."

Faythe crossed her arms in a pout. That stupid, arrogant, sexist boy. All she was trying to do was help and come up with a good plan!

"If you really want to team up.. then our first order of businesses is for you to inform me of what your strong suits are," Pemeth stated, leaning her chin onto her hands.

"Strong suits?" Rye repeated.

Pemeth nodded, "Yes. Like weapons you can use, are you a good runner.. climber.. anything you think would help in the games. I could also figure out ways for you guys to use combination attacks."

Rye glanced down at his golden arms, slightly flexing his muscles. Although he didn't really need to for them to bulge from his shirt.

"Well, I'm pretty strong from working out on the fields. I've practiced fighting with a farming sickle before, so that would probably be my best weapon. Either that or hand-to-hand combat."

"Alright," Pemeth grinned. "And you, girl, what are you good at?"

Faythe eyed her mentor carefully before her gaze moved down to the side table beside the red couch. There, lying motionless, were the darts belonging to the dart board.

Swiftly, Faythe moved to grab one of the sleek darts.

Holding the projectile in her delicate hand, Faythe didn't even bother to glance over her shoulder before gently pushing the projectile through the air behind her. Her blind throw flew at quick speeds, landing effortlessly on the dart board thirty feet away from the couch, jamming itself into the wall. Upon closer examination by Pemeth, she whistled lowly. The dart went straight through the inner bull's eye, not even a millimeter off point.

Faythe reclined back in her seat, her eyes level. "I guess you can say that I have pretty good aim."

"Damn... that was amazing," Rye spoke lowly. He was definitely surprised at the girl's skill.

"The flattery is unnecessary," Faythe replied back easily. "I already know where you stand with me."

"It wasn't supposed to _flatter_ you, sweetheart," the brunette spoke lowly. "It was a statement. A true one at that. And I said that because girls are usually pansies who don't like to get their hands dirty."

Faythe felt her scowl soften, and she could feel her cheeks warm, if only slightly, "Okay, I get it... and _don't_ call me sweetheart. I'm not even that good."

"Yeah, yeah.."

The two tributes looked away from each other, though Pemeth was quick to break the silence slowly beginning to creep up.

"You're right. You're not that good," Pemeth smiled eerily. "You're _excellent_. I can definitely work with that.."

"Work with us both," Rye corrected. "I'm in for the Alliance."

"Oh, so seeing the girl's power made you reconsider?" Pemeth grinned.

Rye quirked an eyebrow, his grin lazily following the action. His cheek dimpled, as if he didn't know the true power of his smile, and Faythe swallowed roughly, uncomfortably. Was he trying to flirt?

"I guess you could say that."

Pemeth nodded. "Well, although I'm not really a fan of alliances, I guess I can train you two together — just this once."

Faythe and Rye shared a fleeting glance, a knowing glance, before Faythe got up.

"Try to get some beauty sleep," the girl spoke quietly, nodding her head before making her way to her room. "We wouldn't want Ophilia to pitch a fit at us for having dark circles under our eyes."

In reality, Faythe really just wanted to get out of that room.

Rye Hazeldine was dangerous to her. Yes, it was better to have him as an ally than an enemy, but with his looks, Faythe knew it would be hard to keep him from working his way into her heart. She had to have to stay vigilant around him — wary. She couldn't slip up. She couldn't make attachments. She couldn't make friends.

They were just going to die anyway.


End file.
